


make mistakes and live for them

by finkpishnets



Series: night owls, early birds [1]
Category: Degrassi
Genre: College, Future Fic, M/M, Miles Hollingsworth is kind of a dick, Recreational Drug Use, Zigmund Novak is a giant dork who talks too much, accidental friendship plus bonus feelings, background Zoë/Grace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 16:52:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5098124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finkpishnets/pseuds/finkpishnets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s possible,” Miles says, dropping his bags carelessly to the floor, “that this is the worst thing to ever happen to me. Which, let’s be honest, is a pretty huge feat.”</p><p>Zig stares back at him with wide, unblinking eyes. “I told Maya college was a bad idea.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	make mistakes and live for them

**Author's Note:**

> For the trope_bingo prompt "future fic."

“It’s possible,” Miles says, dropping his bags carelessly to the floor, “that this is the worst thing to ever happen to me. Which, let’s be honest, is a pretty huge feat.”

Zig stares back at him with wide, unblinking eyes. “I told Maya college was a bad idea,” he says eventually, glancing down at his partially unpacked duffle bags like they’ve betrayed him.

When Miles had chosen where he wanted to go to school it had been because of two simple things: one, it was away from his dad, and two, it was away from Toronto. That was it. Except apparently it wasn’t, because Zigmund _fucking_ Novak is his roommate and that is a whole new level of joke on the universe’s part.

“I don’t suppose it’s too late to switch dorms?” he says, and Zig shrugs apologetically.

“All full. I tried for a single.”

Miles nods and thinks about the breathing exercises his therapist’s keen on, then gives up with a sigh.

“If we’re doing this,” he says, and _shit_ , apparently they are, “I’m not staying sober.”

Zig grins. “That’s some college level thinking right there.”

It could be worse, Miles supposes. At least Zig always has weed.

 

**~**

 

All of Miles’ life he’s been prepped for Ivy League; it wasn’t that anyone ever discussed it, it was just expected in that way that everything about him was expected. He was _expected_ to get good grades, he was _expected_ to date around just enough to be debonair, he was _expected_ to live his life for his dad’s endless campaigns.

Of course, Miles has always been good at disappointing.

(“You’re only repaying the hand the world’s dealt you,” his therapist would say. “Life has repeatedly disappointed you so you do the same in return. It’s okay to let go of other people’s expectations. It’s okay to let go of your own.”

To be honest, it would be good advice if it hadn’t landed him rooming with Zig Novak.)

 

**~**

 

“Party tonight at Pi Lambda Phi,” a guy from his Econ class says, slapping a hand on his shoulder and nodding in approval when he notices they’re wearing the same polo shirt. Miles has the sudden urge to burn his, but just nods in vague agreement instead and watches as the guy joins a group of clones before wandering off in a cloud of Ralph Lauren and Eau de Lacoste. 

“Is it kinda like looking in a mirror?” Zig says, sidling up next to him. “I bet they all have numbers at the end of their names too.”

“Failed out yet?” Miles asks. “I didn’t see Intro to Checkout Boy on the course list.”

“ _Wow_ ,” Zig says, “that hurt. Anyway, do you want this or not?” He passes Miles a sub - salami and pesto, which is…actually exactly something Miles would have ordered himself. He eyes it suspiciously. “What?” Zig says. “Oh for— You were bitching about how this class didn’t let out in time for you to get across campus for lunch. I’m being _nice_ , you fuckbag.”

“Oh,” Miles says, and isn’t sure what to do with that. “Thanks?”

“Damn straight,” Zig says. “Enjoy your party. If you rush a frat I will devote the rest of my life to laughing at you, just so you know.”

Miles flips him off and heads for his next class.

 

**~**

 

“I’m coming up this weekend,” Zoë says, which actually means she’s already on her way, and Miles presses cancel on her call and tries to work out if there’s anywhere to hide his share of the dirty laundry that makes up half the floor.

“’s a lost cause, dude,” Zig says, jabbing away at his PlayStation controller with singular focus.

“Yeah,” Miles agrees, because it really is. Besides, he’s not trying to sleep with Zoë anymore so her _‘ew, boys’_ face will probably just be hilarious. “Pass me one of those.”

When Zoë does arrive it’s with Grace in tow and the expected look of disdain, and Miles lets her judge him for as long as it takes Zig and Grace to get through some complicated fist bump and then suggests they all go out for dinner instead.

Letting Zoë pick the restaurant is as close as he comes to feeling guilty about not calling her all semester.

“Well, this roommate thing certainly makes visiting easier,” she says looking smug, and Miles wonders if this is punishment for not letting her know about it himself. He should have figured Zig would tell Grace. “I can’t wait to fill in Tristan. He’ll bust a gut.”

“Uncalled for,” Miles says at the same time Grace jabs an elbow into her girlfriend’s side. “The cardinal rule of our friendship is that we don’t talk about Tris.”

Zig scoffs into his beer. “ _Cardinal_ ,” he says, poking Grace’s arm.

“Oh geez,” Miles says, and wonders how it’s taken him this long to realize Novak’s a lightweight.

 

**~**

 

The girls opt out of crashing at theirs in favor of a hotel Grace finds on Google, and Miles ends up carting Zig back alone, listening to a running commentary of bad jokes he wishes he was recording for future blackmail.

Later, when he’s fought with Zig’s sneakers and collapsed into his own bed, Zig comes ‘round enough to ask, “Why’d you and Tristan break up again?”

“Why’d you and Maya break up again?” Miles shoots back, and Zig huffs.

“Ah,” he says, “not ‘again’. Just once. Kinda. We were dating and then we weren’t. I don’t know.”

“Right,” Miles says, and thinks about how probable that actually is. Maya and Zig, drifting out of a relationship, still Skyping once a month to check in and linking stupid Vines to each other on Twitter. Sickeningly cute in that way they’ve somehow always managed to be.

“It was supposed to be better the second time around,” he says eventually, when he’s not even sure Zig’s still awake. “We exhausted ourselves trying to _make_ it better. In the end it wasn’t healthy for either of us.”

“Tha’ sucks, man,” Zig slurs, yawning into his pillow, and yeah.

Pretty much.

 

**~**

 

Zoë randomly texts him, _remember, a balanced diet is your friend_ , one Thursday lunch, the only day Miles’ class schedule actually allows for more than something grabbed from a vending machine, and he frowns down at it for a while before turning his attention back to the giant plate of fries in front of him.

“I think we might be becoming predictable, Zigmund,” he says, and Zig shrugs and doesn’t ask why, too focused on the…three? Three hamburgers on his plate. Geez. He really needs to find out where the college gym is before they both fall into the freshman fifteen trap Frankie’s always teasing him about.

Miles still isn’t entirely sure how the Thursday lunches became a _thing_ , but every week they both show up at the same fast food place off campus and sit at the same table and sometimes talk, so it’s practically a tradition. 

He doesn’t hate it.

“Are you going back for the holidays?” Zig asks suddenly, and Miles shakes his head.

“Nah. Frankie and Hunter are going to stay with our grandparents in Switzerland so there’s not much there for me. You?”

“Yeah, no. Maya offered but she’s got a new boyfriend and that’d just be weird.” His eyes are wide as he drags out the last word, and Miles doesn’t resist the urge to call him a dork. “We could get a tree,” Zig continues, ignoring him. “One of those little fake ones with the flashing lights. Oh, one that _sings!_ ”

“We’re not getting a singing tree,” Miles says, horrified. “No. Fuck no.”

Zig grins, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his plastic chair. “Oh yeah,” he says. “We are.”

 

**~**

 

“We probably should have waited until we were sober to do this,” Miles says and takes another swig of his drink anyway. It’s blue and sickly sweet and possibly going to kill him, but Zig’s had a good two cups more so at least he’ll die first.

“We’ll never regret this masterpiece,” Zig says and hangs another string of reindeer fairy lights above the bathroom door. They have red noses and Miles is reasonably sure LEDs shouldn’t get that bright. He’s also reasonably sure Zig shouldn’t be up ladders considering he has no idea where the nearest emergency room is and almost everyone else has gone home for the holidays.

“We pay a set electricity bill, right?” he says, and Zig does something that could be a shrug or could be a desperate attempt to keep his balance.

A punk rock medley of Christmas carols is playing from Zig’s crappy laptop speakers and there are so many baubles on their beds that they’ll inevitably just fall asleep on the floor. The whole room basically looks like someone threw up the Dollar Store Yuletide collection, and Miles should probably find it tacky as hell but he just pours them both another drink and passes Zig more plastic holly instead.

(They have to take down half the lights the next morning after their RA comes by and reams them out about fire safety while they clutch their heads and look longingly at the bathroom door, and Zig looks so upset that Miles buys him a fucking singing tree.

By the time classes start up he never wants to hear _Frosty the Snowman_ again.)

 

**~**

 

“I have my recital thing tonight,” Zig says, throwing his jacket in the vague direction of his bed and interrupting Miles’ only semi-serious attempt at studying for tomorrow’s Trig quiz.

“Why do you have a recital?” Miles asks, frowning up at him. “Wait, what do you actually study?”

“Music Education,” Zig says, slowly.

“How did I not know that?” Miles says with a laugh that dies down at the look on Zig’s face.

Zig’s eyes are narrowed and his shoulders are somewhere around his ears, and when he snatches his jacket back up and spits, “You are the _worst best friend ever_ ,” Miles realizes he’s missed something pretty huge.

It’s possible he’s even more of an awful person than he knew.

Even though he’s ninety-percent sure the dramatics were down to stress, Miles puts on a shirt and tie and shaves for the first time that week and then goes and sits in an auditorium full of proud parents and college journalism wannabes because apparently Zig is his _best friend_.

Afterwards he stands around the foyer with his hands stuffed awkwardly in his trouser pockets until Zig appears, guitar case slung across his back and a relieved smile on his face that doesn’t fade when he spots Miles.

“Hey,” he says, his bottom lip twisting into something apologetic. “Sorry for the weird emotional shit before.”

“Sorry for being a dick,” Miles says. “Want to get ice cream?”

“Dude, _yes_ ,” Zig says, huffing a laugh and slinging an arm over Miles’ shoulders, and just like that everything’s okay again.

 

**~**

 

In February it snows. Some of the guys from Miles’ required Lit class organize a mass battle in the courtyard and Miles digs out his thickest gloves and layers up whilst Zig stares mournfully at his leather jacket and then grabs one of Miles’ sweaters instead.

It’s simultaneously too short at the body and too tight around the arms, but Zig shoots him a smug grin and tugs the sleeves down over his knuckles, reaching for his own Maya-knitted gloves. He looks ridiculous in faded jeans and biker boots and the badly-fitting Paul Smith sweater, and when he says, “Dude, this is so _soft_ ,” Miles says, “You can keep it.”

Zig’s eyebrows shoot up.

“You’re pulling it all out of shape anyway,” Miles says, quickly. “You might as well.”

“Thanks,” Zig says, smile wide, and Miles nods and reaches for his scarf.

 _Best friends_ , he thinks.

It was much less complicated with Winston.

 

**~**

 

Hunter comes to visit mid-week and Miles doesn’t call him out on skipping school and doesn’t ask why he felt the need to in the first place. He _does_ text Frankie a heads up just in case this is some teenage runaway rebellion shit but she just replies with a gif of a drag queen rolling her eyes so he figures everything’s above board.

He has classes until five but Zig’s out by mid-morning so he offers to hang with Hunter until Miles gets back; Hunter doesn’t seem to care either way, and it sounds like they’re just going to play video games and talk about weird post-hipster rock, so Miles takes him up on it with a grateful punch to the arm.

“So,” Hunter says later when they’re eating pizza and watching _Futurama_ reruns, “are you two dating now?”

Zig’s head shoots up, tomato sauce smudged on the corner of his mouth. “No,” he says, dragging the word out. Then, looking over at Miles: “Wait, we’re not, right?”

“No!” Miles says, turning on his brother. “ _Hunter!_ Stop confusing him!”

“Geez,” Hunter says, raising his hands in surrender. “I was just asking.” He grabs another slice and picks off all the pepperoni. “Seriously though, do you guys ever hang out with other people? You were, like, all Novak talked about today.”

“He was not!” Zig shouts at the same time Miles says, “Shut the hell up, we have friends.”

“Ok-ay,” Hunter says, looking at them both like they’re idiots. Then, after a while, he casually adds, “You know he’s wearing your sweater, right?”

Miles is pretty sure he’d enjoy mocking the way Zig turns instantly red if he weren’t too busy trying to strangle his baby brother with his own headphones.

 

**~**

 

“It wouldn’t suck,” Zig says several hours after they’ve stuck Hunter back on a bus with a balloon arrangement and a ‘Return to Sender’ label addressed to Frankie.

“What wouldn’t?” Miles says, fumbling in the mini fridge for something besides Zig’s weird grapefruit juice.

“You and me. Dating.”

They’ve been trying to stealthily hotbox their room all afternoon without their RA noticing, so Miles is probably less thrown by this comment than he’d normally be.

“Sure,” he says. “Or it would be the worst thing ever and one of us would end up dead. Probably you.”

“Way harsh, Tai,” Zig says, clutching a hand to his chest, and seriously, Miles is never letting him pick the Sunday night movie ever again. “No but for real. We’re two peas in a pod. The awesome sort that someone’s grandpa grows in his allotment and are, like, the size of your head at Thanksgiving dinner. Those peas.”

“I know I tell you this on a weekly basis,” Miles says earnestly, “but I really think you should know that you’re the biggest dork I’ve ever met. And that includes my brother.” 

“Your brother thinks we’re awesome peas,” Zig says. “Well, he thinks _I’m_ an awesome pea. He thinks you’re, like, petit pois.”

“Remember the days when I hated you?” Miles says wistfully. “Those were great. I miss those.”

“Shut up and pass the Doritos, my petit pois,” Zig says, and only stops laughing when Miles threatens to throw his CD collection out the window.

 

**~**

 

Zoë texts him a picture of Tristan and some guy in a flat cap angled in a way the former would probably describe as ‘jauntily’, and he’s not sure what she’s trying to achieve but he sends her an internet screamer back anyway. She follows it up with a picture of Maya in a swimsuit being held up by some guy twice her size and he wonders if she meant to send that one to Zig or if she’s going to send him her and Grace’s sex tape next.

 _a) you’re gross_ , she replies, _b) i’m making a point & c) please, that tape’s for our eyes only._

 _tease_ , he shoots back, and then actually tries to work out what the hell it is she’s trying to say.

“Huh,” Zig says, looking down at the screen over his shoulder. He’s eating a giant bowl of Fruity Pebbles, and when he leans closer his spoon tips milk onto Miles’ shirt. “Sorry,” he says, shrugging. He nods back at the cell. “S’cool they’re happy and moving on and shit.”

And, _oh_.

Right.

 _That_.

 

**~**

 

It should probably be weird that he’s almost finished his Freshman year and hasn’t dated or hooked up or really paid _attention_ to anyone that isn’t Zig since he found his room assignment and wondered if the military took last minute applicants.

For Zig, obviously, not for him.

It _should_ be weird, but what’s truly fucking terrifying is that it’s _not_.

Apparently Zig’s his best friend, and apparently Miles also _likes_ him in a way that wouldn’t seem out of place in the letter pages of a pre-teen girl’s magazine. Well, a magazine with a surprisingly liberal view on recreational drug use anyway. It would be pathetic even without the glaringly obvious differences in their tastes, but what really gets Miles is that he _doesn’t want to screw this up_.

He’s felt more himself in his months at college with Zig than in the entirety of his previous eighteen years of life, and _sure_ , he could probably be even happier, but this is already so much more than he ever thought he’d get back when he was a scared fucking kid in Canada trying to live up to an endless stream of expectations and work out who the hell he was outside of high school and campaigns and short-lived relationships based less on the real him and more on who he tried to be for everyone else involved.

He wants to look at shitty two-bed apartments for next semester and spend the summer with Zoë and Grace and the twins somewhere far away, and he wants to figure out his major and get a part-time job to pay for groceries or weed or both, and he wants to do all those things _with Zig_.

He wants it so much it _hurts_ , so much that he’s willing to put back on the mask he hasn’t needed since he packed his bags and left Toronto in his rearview mirror. All he has to do is keep his mouth shut and not freak out and everything will be okay.

(He can already hear his therapist’s disappointed sigh as she tells him he shouldn’t lie to himself.)

 

**~**

 

“The thing is,” Zig says, coming back from teaching six year old’s basic guitar chords and sitting on the edge of Miles’ bed, “I already know you’re an asshole.”

“Thanks?” Miles says.

“No, shut up,” he says, rolling his eyes and tugging at the corner of Miles’ sheets with restless fingers. “I mean, _come on._ I already know you’re a dick, okay? I know that you eat that weird-ass pickle stuff with everything and leave your dirty laundry until you literally have no clean underwear and frequently say the meanest thing you can think of because you’re fucking useless at emotions. I know that you suck at communication and you use up all the hot water in the mornings and you see a therapist once a week and twice over holidays because you have more baggage than Zoë on vacation. _I know._ ”

Every muscle in Miles’ body feels tense as he avoids Zig’s eye. “So, what? You want your friendship bracelet back?” he says, and hates that it comes out sounding bitter and a little scared.

“Oh for—” Zig says. “ _No_. I want to _date_ you, you fucker.”

Miles’ mind goes blank. “Um.”

Zig rolls his eyes and steals ones of Miles’ pillows, propping it up against Miles’ bent knees and leaning back. “That’s what you’ve been freaking out about, right?” he says. “Since Hunter was here? I mean, I’ve been freaking out too, but you’ve hit a whole new level of weird. Besides, Maya says I’m ‘surprisingly self-aware’ so I figured I should be the bigger man or whatever.”

It’s possible that Miles has finally lost it.

“Okay,” he says eventually, when he’s able to find his voice, “but _why?_ ”

Zig shrugs and Miles feels it against his legs. “I don’t know,” he says. “I just _do_. Like, at first I thought it might be a convenience thing because we hang out all the time? But it’s not. I don’t even know _why_ but I’m genuinely into you and, trust me, no one finds that weirder than me.” He shifts so he’s actually looking at Miles, or at least a spot somewhere near his ear. “It’s like the difference between Expert and Casual mode, right? Like, Expert mode is really complicated and you try super hard for the same outcome, but with Casual mode you get all the cool story parts without dying over and over again, and, okay, so you don’t have as much to brag to your friends about but it doesn’t matter because completing the game was fun instead of frustrating.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Miles lies, mostly because he’s embarrassed that he actually knows Zig well enough to totally get it.

“Yes you do,” Zig says because it goes both ways. “Anyway, it’s not a guy thing. You’re the exception to the rule. I think it’s mostly because we’ve both spent so long _trying_ , that this? This is easy. Also I’m, like, ninety-percent sure the sex could be _awesome_. I mean, I don’t really know how the dude on dude specifics work, but the internet’s been pretty helpful.”

Something in Miles short-circuits at that, and when he comes back to himself he feels more anchored in the conversation. “This could screw up everything,” he says, and doesn’t even pretend that’s not the part that terrifies him the most.

“It won’t though,” Zig says, finally looking directly at him, and he sounds so _sure_ that Miles can’t help but believe him. “I’m going to kiss you now, just a heads up.”

“God, you’re such a dork,” Miles says, and lets him close the distance between them.

 

**~**

 

Later, after they’ve stopped laughing and elbowing each other in awkward places and settled into the kind of lazy making out he hadn’t realized he’d missed so much, Miles tells Zig all about his plans for the next year of their lives as Zig tries to distract him by sticking his hands up his shirt.

“I’m really worried that you’re still talking,” Zig says eventually. “It might be permanently bruising my ego. But sure, apartments and vacations and weed, blah blah, that all sounds awesome.”

“I miss hating you _so much_ ,” Miles tells him. “How serious do you think Maya and her new boyfriend are?”

“ _Wow_ ,” Zig says. “Who knew I was attracted to evil.”

His bottom lip’s red and vaguely swollen, and Miles runs the pad of his thumb over it with a vague sense of awe. He’s still not sure how he got here, lying in a crappy dorm room bed with Zigmund Novak, exchanging heatless barbs and tangling their legs together as much so they don’t topple to the floor as anything else. Later they have to go grocery shopping and finish assignments and persuade their RA to give them their hotplate back with a promise to invest in fire extinguishers, and maybe later still he’ll ease Zig into putting his research into practise, learning the joys of things the internet just can’t quite quantify with his fingers and his mouth and the arrogance that that, at least, is something he knows he can do well.

It’s all so domestic it should make him sick, but it doesn’t even come close.

“Let’s talk Zoë and Grace into a road trip this summer,” he says. “We’ll tell Zoë it’ll be beaches and restaurants and then compete to see who can make her stay in the worst motel.”

“When she kills you in your sleep, I’m gonna provide her an alibi,” Zig says. “She scares me more than you do.”

“Some boyfriend you are,” Miles says, and sees the same thrill in Zig’s wide eyes that he feels right down to his toes.

Zig curls his fingers around Miles’ waist and drops a gentle kiss on his temple. “Aww,” he says, smirk tugging into place. “I’ll always be on your side, my petit pois.”

Miles pushes him off the bed.


End file.
